Page 5 of Wild Claim

“You’ve got a lot of energy, don’t you?” My voice was so sugary sweet it almost came across as condescending. Another fierce gobble escaped him, this time shorter and sharper. His whole body vibrated with indignation.

He thoroughly charmed me. How could I not be? Thomas reminded me of the plucky heroes in Young Adult books, always fighting on, no matter how bad things got.

Before he could make another move, I sprang forward and scooped him up in my arms. He squawked in outrage, his wings beating against my chest, his leg kicking wildly. I held him close, adjusting my grip to keep him from wriggling free. His feathers were warmer than I’d expected, and his body was a solid mass of muscle and bone.

“Shhh,” I said, trying to soothe him. “It’s okay.”

Thomas was having none of it. He fought on, his movements awkward and frantic. But I clung to him, holding him like a huge, feathered toddler having a tantrum. Slowly, his flailing slowed down, his energy spent.

He let out an annoyed huff. I stroked his ruffled feathers, careful not to press too hard.

I shifted his weight in my arms, surprised at how heavy he was. His gaze seemed to drill holes into my skull. “Relax, silly. I just want to help.”

With Thomas secured in my arms, I headed toward the farmhouse. Every step was a careful balancing act. He was heavier and more unwieldy than I’d imagined. His body shifted with each movement, like a sack of potatoes with a mind of its own.

My farmhouse stood at the edge of the forest, its wooden beams weathered and stoic. A gust of wind whipped my hair and Thomas’ feathers, scattering leaves across the yard.

“I bet you’re hungry.” Though, in truth, I had no idea what turkeys ate. Grain? Corn? Bugs? The thought of digging up worms or finding crickets for him made me shudder.

Thomas responded with a low, grumbling gobble, as if to say, “You think?” He looked across the land, possibly figuring out a path to escape.

We reached the porch, and I braced Thomas against my hip like a mother with a cranky child. I fumbled with the door handle, opening it just enough to wedge us through.

Warmth enveloped us as we entered the kitchen.

The kitchen, the very soul of the farmhouse, overflowed with the warmth and memories of a life lived fully. Mismatched pots and pans hung on the rack. An old-fashioned oven, chipped but beloved, sat beside a crock filled with wooden spoons. Floral wallpaper, its colors faded to a soft, grandmotherly pastel, covered the walls.

I gently set Thomas down on the table, standing him on a thick, hand-knit potholder. He wobbled, his injured leg buckling, but stayed upright. For a moment, we just looked at each other. His eyes were like little black marbles, unblinking.

“Don’t go anywhere,” I said, knowing full well he wasn’t in any condition to make a run for it. I turned to the fridge, opening it more out of habit than purpose. What did I have that a turkey could eat? Leftover salad, half a loaf of bread, some cranberries...

I cringed at the sight of the cranberries. Feeding him those would be like serving up a side dish for himself. I pushed them to the back of the shelf.

Behind me, Thomas let out a soft cluck. Turning my head, I saw him attempting to tidy his ruffled feathers. His beak worked steadily despite his apparent tiredness. He had a charming way of trying to keep his dignity.

Closing the fridge, I returned to the table and leaned against its edge. “You know, you’re kind of beautiful in a scruffy, birdy way.”

Thomas paused his preening and looked at me, his eyes narrowing as if suspicious of the compliment.

“I’m serious. You’ve got character.”

Gently, I touched his breast feathers, and this time he didn’t move away. Thomas shut his eyes for a second, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he trusted me a little. Or maybe he was just too tired to care anymore.

I remembered the rake still lying in the yard, the leaves calling to me. But Thomas needed me more right now.

He eyed the door again. Thomas was still too fragile to leave on his own, and I wasn’t about to turn him out, injured and alone. I imagined him as part of my little household, strutting around the yard with the arrogance of a rooster. The thought made me smile.

“Let’s get you settled,” I said, moving toward the living room. The house was quiet except for the gentle ticking of an antique clock on the mantel. “I know you don’t think much of me right now, but you’re safe.”

My living room was my haven, a cozy mess of stacked books, a well-loved sofa with knitted blankets and trinkets from Grandpa’s travels. I grabbed a comfy old quilt from the linen closet and turned the sofa into a bed.

Thomas nestled onto the quilt, sinking into it. His injured leg jutted out at a strange angle, but he didn’t try to move it. He stared at me, his eyes narrow and wary, like he was sizing me up.

“You’re a lucky turkey,” I said, brushing a stray feather from my sweater. “If you’d ended up in anyone else’s yard, you might be in a roasting pan by now.”

Hesitantly, I turned away and walked to the kitchen to brew a pot of tea. The comfortable warmth of the farmhouse slowly seeped into my bones.

Steam rose from the teapot, swirling in lazy patterns as it met the cooler air above the stove. I poured myself a cup, inhaling the fragrant blend of chamomile and mint.

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